


Wiping the slate

by CupcakeGangsta



Category: Shatter Me Series - Tahereh Mafi
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Daddy Issues, Emotional Manipulation, Father-Son Relationship, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, POV First Person, Paris Anderson's A+ Parenting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-11 22:56:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15326229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CupcakeGangsta/pseuds/CupcakeGangsta
Summary: What if Anderson knew about our heroes' planned revolution earlier than in the books?What if he decided to end it before it even begun?What if he wanted to make sure nothing like this ever happens again, by fixing what went wrong with his son the first time; preferably his upbringing?What if he had an Unnatural with a very convenient power?Or,Warner wakes up in a bed and realizes he's shorter than last time he was awake. And he's missing a few scars.





	Wiping the slate

**Author's Note:**

> I have to be honest, this concept has driven me mad since 2014. That's right. 4 years of me daydreaming and writing drafts, but never posting. Then I read Restore me and actually got an idea for an actual plot-line.  
> So yeah, this is mostly for me, but maybe also for others who miss Anderson just as much as I do and want more Aaron with daddy-issues.
> 
> Will contain spoilers from all the books concerning info on Aaron's and Juliette's pasts, so beware. Though nothing on Juliette this chapter.
> 
> Might just change the name.

I wake up in a bed.

I don’t remember how I got into this bed.

My hand fly to my right shoulder in a moment of panic. But no, it’s healed. I’m not back in the hospital bed. The last few weeks hasn't been a dream. I haven’t been drugged out of my mind again.

Or was I?

I sit up and look around the room. Again, I remark that it isn’t a hospital room. It’s large with lavished decor. A thick oriental rug peeks out from underneath the bed to protect the feet from the cold, polished floor boards in the mornings. The walls are covered in, what I can only guess to be, handmade tapestries. All the furniture match.

It’s like a set. It makes me think of a doll house.

It all looks like an expensive box of dark chocolate. Brown, black, orange, a touch of white here and there.

There are no curtains. Because there are no windows.

But there is a door.

I have never been in this room. And as far as I can remember, which isn’t much, I did not come here by my own free will.

Considering that we declared war on the Reestablishment yesterday this most likely has something to do with my father. Perhaps he had me collected. Just like he had Juliette that time on the battlefield.

I was actually expecting this, so I’m not too panicked. Besides, I have one or  at most, two days until he arrives. Unless they have already moved me. That might prove to be more problematic...

Before I get out the bed I take a moment to reach out with my power. I can’t feel anyone prominent nearby. Which means Juliette isn’t _here_. Which isn’t necessarily a good thing. But I also know she’ll be able to take care of herself.

First thing I do is to take the chair standing in the corner, surely meant for the inhabitant to leave their clothes on, and put it against the door as a blockade.

Not my best work. But it will have to do until I have investigated the room further.

Other than the chair there is a walk in closet, and a smaller wardrobe. I look through the wardrobe first. There’s socks. And underwear. Male underwear.

But not my size.

They’re too small.

I’m confused. If this is an abduction, surely they would have gotten clothes my size…

As I look up from the drawer I’m met by my reflection in the mirror above the wardrobe. I can’t say why, but something is _very_ off.

Either this wardrobe his very tall together with the ceiling. Or it’s my height. It’s too short.

But that’s not the end of my observations.

My face...

The longer I look the more certain I become.

It’s too… _round_. The sharp lines that I’ve come to know as my chin and cheekbones have been replaced by curved arches.

I put my hand on my cheek. Drag my thumb cross the line of my jaw.

I don’t have stubble. Only soft hairs that are too light too even notice. Normally that would have given me an estimated time on how long it had been since I was taken captive.

A suspicion arises in my mind.

I look down. Think for a moment.  
And pull up my shirt to reveal the soft skin of my stomach. Then I quickly unzip my pants and pull at the fabric covering my skin.

I’m stunned at the sight.

My tattoo is gone.

A cold feeling settles at the bottom of my stomach.

I take a step back to get a better view of myself, but it’s positioned too high up.

I go to the closet, and sure enough, there’s a full body mirror on the inside of the door. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t have waited to investigate whatever closet my captor would have provided for me, but right now I only have eyes for my reflection.

For a few moments I’m just blinking at myself. Then slowly I lift my hand to my arm and pinch myself. Hard.

And it hurts.

So no, I’m not dreaming.

I look like when I was younger.

I zip my pants, then carefully pull off my shirt over my head. Then I turn around. I crane my neck to look over my shoulder.

And as I do I can feel the hairs on my neck rise.

And now I feel like vomiting.

There’s fewer of them. The crisscrossed scars on my back. I don’t have to count them.

There’s only six of them now. Seven of them are gone.

That means I have somehow gone back to what I was before my twelfth birthday.

I inhale deeply to steady myself against the urge to throw up. I let out the air in small shots of air. I count them.

Twenty. Inhale.

Seventeen. Inhale.

Thirteen. Inhale.

Eight.

Longer and longer until I can empty my lungs with three. It takes several minutes. I cannot afford to have a panic attack now.

But what to do?

I won’t get any answers by staying here, that’s for certain. I grab my shirt off the ground and shrug it on, not bothering to button it. Then I remove the chair from the door and push down the handle.

I should have been concerned by the door not being locked.

I’m immediately meet by a pair of very startled eyes. I recognize him; but he’s not one of my soldiers. The lines on his forearms tell me that much.

It’s one of my father’s private guards. And I’m fairly certain it’s the same one that was sent to invite me to dinner with father just a few weeks ago. Those dead fish eyes.

We stare at each other for a second, because both of us are just as surprised to see the other.

He is the one who makes the first move.

He lunges forward and grabs me by the upper arm. Of course I try to shake him off me. And when it doesn’t work - because I am less than half my ordinary weight and he’s somewhere around two hundred pounds - I do my best to maintain my dignity and let myself be escorted down the hallway.

Under normal circumstances I would have reminded him that he wasn’t permitted to touch me.

Or actually, I would have shot him _before_ reminding him; but since I’m a traitor I have been retrieved all benefits my rank had given me.

It’s the smell that alerts me of my whereabouts first.

It’s not just to smell of aristocrats. _That_ lingers in every sitting room on this base.

On every base on this continent really.

This is the smell that would fill me with immense dread as a child. The one that still sends me into a slightly dazed and disoriented state whenever I inhale it without being prepared.

The smell of alcohol.

And not just any alcohol.

Beer: That’s nothing. Wine: I used to actually find kind of sophisticated, because _he_ didn’t like it very much.

This. This smell that is subtle enough as not to disturb the ordinary person. Ingrained in the wallpaper after many, many evenings being poured into large stubby glasses.

It smells like fire smoke.

Like gasoline.

Heavy alcohol.

These are my father's private quarters.

And I don’t even have time to process it before the guard pulls me into a room, and what I see makes me dig my heels into the carpet. My heart flying up my throat.

_I thought I had more time._

He’s sitting in an armchair with his back towards the door. He’s busy reading something, so he hasn’t noticed us yet. He’s holding a glass in the other hand. A gold liquid swirling inside it.

The guard walks straight up to the chair with me in an involuntary tow, then stands at attention at the appropriate distance.

“Sir”, is all he says.

He doesn’t look up at once. He’s busy reading. He doesn't like being interrupted.

I stand very, very still.

There is a voice from my childhood reassuring me that if I just stay still and he doesn’t find me, if he doesn’t see me, he’ll forget about me, and I’ll be safe.

He finishes his reading too quickly, and then he looks up at us. His blue eyes find me immediately though. At first he’s a little surprised, not really sure what he’s looking at. Then his face erupts in a smile that is too delighted. Too pleased. He waves for the guard who releases the hold of my arm.

He drops the report on the side table, they’re completely forgotten now - the glass he sets down being more mindful however - and he shifts in his chair. More forward. More engaged in the conversation; like a businessman who's caught a great deal.

And within arm’s length of me.

Still, he’s only looking at me. Up and down. Left and right. He is astonished. And suddenly I’m very aware of the fact that I forgot to button my shirt.

The thin cotton shirt wouldn’t provide much protection even if I had, but displaying the soft flesh of my stomach like this is unnerving.

Then suddenly he takes my chin into his hand, his thumb brushing a small circle on my cheek, feeling it, while saying, as if to himself:  
“My God…”

Then a chuckle.

“You are _adorable_!”

Snapping out of my shock I slap away his hand.

“Do not _patronize_ me!”, I shout. Though it doesn’t come out as forceful as I had imagined. I was nowhere near puberty at eleven and my voice is two octaves higher than I can recall. It’s a shrill, annoying _noise_ coming out of my throat.

The guard standing next to me tenses, but my father only laughs.

“Still a little riled up, are we?”, he wonders.

I blink.

 _Riled up_.

The way he says it. _Riled up_ like a child who woke up too early from their nap.

But I stay collected, or as much as I can be. At least I have a concret question I need answers to.

“What have you’ve done to me?”, I ask.

“Take a guess, son”, he tells me as he rests his chin against his hand prompted up on the armrest.

I’m not surprise. He has always loved making me think for myself, to then correct it since I always managed to get the answer wrong.

“I’m eleven again”, I say.

“Really?”, he asks, tilting his head. That smile again. Like I’m a cute little puppy. Not that he was ever a puppy person.

Though he isn’t being sarcastic.

He squints a little at my open shirt. Thinks for a moment, then the small crease on his forehead disappears. I don't need to read his emotions to know that he’s making the connection with my scars.

“How?!”, I ask.

“Mhm?”, he hums, his thoughts elsewhere.

“ _How did you do this…?!”_ , I elaborate, suddenly impatient.

“ _My body”_ , I raise my voice,”has been brought back _several years_ against my will. I want to know what you did! We don’t have the technology to accomplish anything like this and… and…” I start trailing as I rant, realizing it myself.

It’s fairly obvious when you think about it.

He had said they’re were more of them. Castle had said something similar, albeit more positively to their existence.

Omega Point had hosted hundreds, and it wasn't hard to imagine that they were several thousands, perhaps even hundreds of thousands, spread around the globe.

And my father who has been aware of them for a _long_ time is bound to have found some of his own.

“You’ve used an _Unnatural_ **,** haven’t you?”

“Clever boy”, he commends me. Sounding like a dog owner whose pet managed to perform a neat little trick.

“Who?”, I wonder.

“No one you’ll ever have the pleasure of meeting, son”, he replies.

And as if _he’s_ the one to read my mind he adds:  
“And besides, there hasn’t been any documentation about reversing the ability. Only that they've managed to stop the aging of the people around them for years, which is why they arouse suspicion in the first place.”

“All _you_ need to know is that it was done by injecting some _very_ concentrated liquid harnessed from the _Unnatural’s_ body into your bloodstream.”

Then he tilts his head.

“We weren’t sure about the exact dosage to use, though our estimation seem to have been very close to what we aimed for”, he says eyeing me up and down again.

My response is to cross my arms over my chest.

The fact that he just admitted that they’ve used me as an unwilling test subject for this ability doesn't help my attempt at trying to keep this civil. Or as civil as it already is.

“We can have you x-rayed to pinpoint your age even more”, he continues - not taking note of my more defensive stance - giving my arm a look.  
“It would give or take a few months. It was in September you broke it, right?”

I’m tempted to laugh. Because I know I was in no shape or form responsible for that broken radius.

“Have to make sure you won’t have to redo it?”, I ask him.

I can still remember the noise of the bone in my arm snapping under his hands. It almost haunts me more than the following fourteen nights that I had to spend in the forest without any pain killers. Or a splint.

_Almost._

He smiles now. A legitimate smile.

“No”, he says.  
“There won’t be any need for that anymore.”

Now I’m actually confused. He’s making it sound like as if he _isn’t_ going to maim and torture me. Perhaps he wants to be more simple for a change. Though it’s unlike him.

“So straight to execution then?”, I ask. That would make sense. Sort of. The reason for why I am a child. Killing children is always a certain way to scare the civilians into submission. Perhaps he is going to put me on display. Pierce my head with a spear and put it above the gate to the castle.

Make an example.

He looks amused. Still, he pretends to be shocked. Aghast even.

“ _Execution?_ ”, he repeats.

He straightens a little in his seat as he says it.

“Aaron, I know you’ve been quite naughty causing such a ruckus, having me come here twice in one month, but let’s not go overboard!”, he says, then he laughs. As if it was all some kind of joke.

“What do you mean?”, I ask.

“Well...”, he starts, leaning back into the chair again, his fingers knitting themselves together on his stomach.

He huffs a little.

“There obviously have to be some kind of consequences for this _little stunt..._ ”, he starts.

“So I've decided that for the next few weeks you are going to be grounded and given an early bedtime. And that goes for the base”, he says and twirls a hand in the air to indicate the area. He redirects it to point at the floor as he continues.

“If you abuse it it will shrink to these quarters. No running around the compound seeing your little friends. If you’re good I might let you watch a movie in the evening, but I’m going to leave your books alone; don’t want you getting too restless, do we?”

He counts them up in a neat little list. As if he has thoroughly thought through this punishment of mine, weighed the pros and cons of his parenting techniques.

I’m shaking in barely contained wrath when he’s finished.

“ _Grounded…!?_ ”

“You plan to treat me like _a child_ …?!”, I demand.

“Yes, yes I am Aaron. Do you have any objections?”, he asks.

Oh, if I do…!

“You do realize my ‘ _ruckus’_ , as you call it, was an uprising against _your_ corrupt regime. And now you, _you!”,_ I say and point at him in anger,”who has drilled into my head about what happens to traitors my whole life. _You_ who kill entire families over trivial crimes; tortures men until they ask for death; are saying I’m being _grounded?!”_

He looks at me indifferently. Scoffs.

“I wouldn’t consider a little boy throwing a tantrum for attention ‘ _an uprising’_ , son.”

I lose it at that.

“YOU’RE A BLOODY HYPOCRITE AND YOU KNOW IT!”, I yell.

I _yell_.

And without warning, or by conscious decision

I

stomp

my

foot.

Like a

**GODDAMN**

five year old.

I'm not the only one to make this observation it seems.

“I think _someone_ is in need of some more _cool-off_ time...”, my father tuts as he shares a glance with the guard, all the while I'm seething between my teeth trying to rebuild the walls in my mind. Though they seem to have been demolished to dust.

“To his room, sir?”, the guard asks.

“Yes”, my father says glancing at his expensive wristwatch. He clicks his tongue.  
“There’s still a few hours until dinner. Let’s see if he remembers how to behave by then.”

“I…!”, I start, but I’m interrupted by the guard taking my arm again.

I struggle. Of course.

“Hey!”, I protest.

“I’m not finished!”

I look at father, but he’s focusing on his reports again. His glass once again resting in his palm.

I can see a condensed water droplet making its’ way towards his hand. It's catching the light.

It’s almost reminiscent.

And I remember something else.

“W-wait!”, I say. And in desperation I grab onto the back of his chair. The small jerk from the force between the guard’s hold and my hand on the chair makes my father look up.

“‘ _My little friends_ ’”, I quote him.  
“You said _my little friends_ ”, I urge.

“Where are they?”

He raises his eyebrows and we both know there’s a more important question between us.

My heart skips a beat.

How could I forget to ask?!

I can't stop the stammer as I ask:

“What have you’ve done to her?”

“Oh”, he says.

He smiles. So very content with himself.

He raises the glass towards his lips, holds it right before his mouth for a moment before he sips on it. Then he sighs, licking his lips for any excess, the flavor filling him with extreme delight.

I realize too late it’s a victory toast to himself and my guts fill with ice as cold as the cubes clinking around in the amber liquid.

He looks at me lowering the glass, still smiling.

“She’s been taken care of.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you didn't understand the broken arm thing: In Restore me Warner tells the reader how his father broke his arm and left him in the wilderness for two weeks as an exercise. Much sad :(


End file.
